


Make These Hours Count

by breakdancingsigma (hetawholockvengerstuck)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Drinking, Expiration Date, Gen, Thoughts of death, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetawholockvengerstuck/pseuds/breakdancingsigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Spy trains Scout in the art of seduction, the other mercenaries spend their last seventy hours as they see fit. </p><p>(Set during Expiration Date)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make These Hours Count

"See you all in hell," Spy said, removing a cigarette from his case. His teammates scattered in all directions. Spy didn't care what they did, so long as they left him in peace. He had the perfect three days planned: nothing but relaxing in his smoking room, reading magazines, drinking his finest wines, and reminiscing about his many escapades.

 _He_ was going to make these hours count. How the others wasted their time was of no concern.

* * *

_**68 hours until death** _

"Mum...look, I know it's a lot to take in...no, we're not sure what it is. Doc's working on it right now..."

Seventy hours.  _Seventy hours_. It sounded like a long time, but no matter what Spy said, it was nothing. Sniper had always assumed he would die young, but this...this was too  _soon_. He had so many things he had to do, so many words he had to say...

Seventy hours in which he could do anything he wanted, and the only thing he wanted to do--the only thing that  _made sense_ \--was to call his parents.

 _"Can you come home?"_ his mother asked.  _"Spend your last few days with us?"_

"I don't think they'd give me the time off, Mum. I'm sorry. If I could, I would, but..."

" _Well, maybe it's for the better. This doctor you mentioned, is he good?"_

Sniper shifted from foot to foot. "More or less. He's used to dealing with...experimental stuff."

 _"Then he might find a way to cure you all."_ His mother's voice was full of desperate hope that Sniper couldn't share.  _"You should stay close to him, dear. In case he finds the cure."_

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence. Then Sniper said, "Mum, can you...would you get Dad? I want to speak to both of you."

_"Of course, darling. Just a moment..."_

There was shuffling on the other end, and then his father's gruff voice said,  _"What?"_ Sniper had never been so happy to hear that voice.

"Dad...did Mum tell you why I called?"

_"Course she did. A load of kangaroo dung, that's what it is. Never heard of a whole army getting cancer before!"_

"It's not cancer, exactly."

_"Well, whatever it is, you're all just overreacting. In three days time you'll be fit as a fiddle and shooting innocent bystanders from afar."_

_"Richard...!"_ came his mother's voice, scolding.

Sniper rubbed his temples and rested his free arm against the phone box, head bowed. "Dad, just...listen, please. I know it's a shock, but...even if this does all turn out to be a false alarm...I want to say..."

He paused. Shifted the phone away from his face, covered the mouthpiece with his hand so his dad wouldn't hear the sob that escaped his throat. He took no more than a minute to compose himself, so he knew that when he spoke again, his father had to have heard the weakness in his voice.

"I love you, Dad. I love you, Mum. I'm sorry it turned out like this."

His mother's response was immediate, but his father took a moment--far too long, precious seconds ticking by--before he said,  _"You'll be fine."_

And hung up.

Sniper placed the phone back in its cradle. He paced calmly, casually, back to his camper van. Closed the door, hung up his hat, shed his vest. Sat on his bed.

Let the sobs rip out of his throat. Let himself have this moment of weakness. Then a nap--because, really what else was there to do?

* * *

_**63 hours until death** _

Pyro wasn't worried. Why should they be? There was nothing scary about a cake filled with green M&Ms. Maybe Medic thought it was a fruitcake.

Pyro wasn't worried, but everyone else was, and so Pyro played along. They filled a tub with lighter fluid, played with a rubber ducky they took from Scout's locker, and had a great time. They made balloon animals. They frolicked around the base uninhibited.

Then they tried to get their teammates to play a game of poker, and was spurned every time. Everyone sure was taking this game seriously, weren't they?

So Pyro took the game seriously, too. They pretended to be scared and sad. 

They didn't realize, but to the rest of the team, this made the situation worse. Seeing the usually peppy Pyro so solemn drove home to the mercs that these were, indeed, their final moments.

* * *

 

_**50 hours until death** _

Soldier teleported bread. Then he switched things up and teleported a pretzel. Then he went right back to teleporting bread.

* * *

 

_**42 hours until death** _

Demoman didn't call home. He didn't see the point. The roster of the Degroot family was in a constant state of flux, usually due to accidents or liver failure. Demo had always figured that was how he would go, in a blaze of glorious failure. He'd be buried in a matchbox in the family graveyard, a record of his successes--and ultimate failure--engraved on his stone, a bottle of his favorite whiskey poured over the soil, his portrait hung in the Hall of the Detonated right next to Uncle Aidan, or maybe Aunt Miranda. 

Death by tumor wasn't part of the plan. Wasn't as honorable as liver failure. That he could live (hah) with. 

Well, maybe he'd get lucky and the tumors would be in his liver.

Demo shook his head and knocked back another bottle of scrumpy. He still wore the sombrero from his beer retrieval assignment, but the beer itself had been consumed before he'd started on the hard liquor. 

The more he drank, the less he was convinced that this really was the end. He looked over at Sniper, sitting on the other side of the table, passed out with his feet on the table and his hat tipped over his eyes. Hadn't even finished the beer Demo had handed him. 

"How's the doc know we got tumors in us?" Demo asked aloud. He knew he wouldn't get a response, but organizing his thoughts was easier if he said them aloud. "I havenae felt any tumors! Nothin' wrong with me."

Sniper said nothing. Demo mumbled unintelligibly into his drink, and sat there until Spy came to get him for Scout's practice dinner.

* * *

 

_**29 hours until death** _

Engineer would have liked to take a break. He would've liked to sit down, build a few knick-knacks, relax in his chair and drink beer. Maybe play his guitar. He knew that Medic, for all his excitement over their experiments, would've liked to spend time with his doves, play violin, maybe just relax with a book and talk literature with Heavy. But they had a job to do, and staying busy was better than thinking about how long they had to live.

Heavy seemed to have the same idea, too. He'd entered the lab without a word an hour ago, book in hand, and made himself comfortable in one of the plastic chairs in the corner. Asked once how the work was going, read a bit. Asked if he could fiddle with some of the scrap metal and spare parts on Engie's side of the lab.

When Engie checked on him again, Heavy was surround by metal, a prototype gun on his lap. He looked perfectly at ease--not at all like a man with a mere hours left to live.

"How ya doin', big fella?" Engie asked, wiping his hands on his uniform. Medic was busy poking at the bread, so there wasn't anything for him to do. "Ya seem awfully calm. Got yer affairs settled, then?"

Heavy nodded. "Have made lots of money for family. No need to call, is better to write. Have letter for Miss Pauling to mail."

"Sounds like ya got everythin' figured out," Engie said. "Wish I did."

"Engineer!" Medic called. "We should run the test once more. I think I am onto something!"


End file.
